


From Paris, With Love

by gonfalonier



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Jefferson being vile, Sex Toys, implied Washington/Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5561605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An anniversary gift for the woman who has everything, sent by someone who really, really cares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Paris, With Love

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline might be a little fucked here, sorry, thank you.

The box is large enough that the postman has to enter the foyer and set it on the dining table. He apologizes for the intrusion, for entering when Mr. Hamilton is not at home. Eliza waves him off graciously. If the neighbors want to insist she’s having a love affair with the man who brings their letters, well. That wouldn’t be the worst they’ve said about her and her husband.

Mr. Hamilton hasn’t been home for a fortnight. Sometimes it was easier when he was a soldier. Eliza could say what he was doing, tell her lady friends that he was out defending their lives, marching daily at the side of George Washington himself. He still marches beside Mr. Washington. They are still dearly close. But now all Alexander seems to do is write himself to sickness. She receives a letter from him daily, and sometimes the news is triumphant and others it is painful. She misses him. She knows he’s doing good, but she wishes he were more often doing well.

Eliza writes, too. She keeps a daily diary, documents purchases, meetings with friends, meals eaten and liked or disliked, conversations that were very interesting or made her angry, opinions she holds but doesn’t share. She sketches the phases of the moon in the margins when she’s bored. Yesterday she illustrated the lines for today with a few music notes, fragments of a tune she and Alexander danced to on their wedding day. She woke this morning with a sigh. Today is their anniversary.

She’s standing in the dining room, arms akimbo as she scrutinizes the package from a distance. She was too busy assuring the postman to notice any details about it. She doesn’t even know if it’s hers to open. She approaches it with her hands still on her hips. It’s addressed to her in a fine hand. There is no return mark. She has no doubt it’s an anniversary gift from Alex, something chosen carefully to make up for his absence. Disappointment and excitement nip at her temples.

She breaks the wax that seals either end of the brown paper and unfolds it to reveal a box in red and black velvet, pile on pile, embossed in fleur-de-lis. Resting on top is a letter folded, sealed in wax and stamped with a J. Her brow crinkles as she opens the letter; immediately she knows it isn’t Alexander’s hand. Alexander didn’t send this. Her eyes flick to the bottom of the paper to find the signature of its author. She mutters aloud, “What in all hell.”

_My good Mrs. Ham.,_

_3 months ago, in speaking with your husband, whose company I find myself in often, I learned of your approaching wedding anniversary. He does not speak of you much to me, which is why the detail of the date and the year remained in my mind. I know he will be here with us on the day. This causes me great pain on your behalf. The work that Mr. Ham. is doing here is furious and misguided; he would be better served by your side than in Pres. Washington’s quarters, all but under the man’s desk. I’m sure you agree. I cannot reason with him. How do you converse reasonably with a man whose mouth never closes?_

_Pres. has all rights to him, of course, and will keep him here and close at hand until they have both become exhausted. Meanwhile, you suffer without husband in an uncivilized city. I could never abide New York, the whole state wide, nor anywhere in the North. And since I cannot invite you to sweet-smelling Virginia and keep within propriety, I have sent the enclosed small comfort._

_At twelve years of marriage, the traditional gift is silk. Did you know? And I have myself seen you looking handsome in silk gowns, silk gloves, and silk shoes. Your cheek itself might well be made from silk. Mr. Ham. has not specified. However because I have faith in your commitment I have chosen to skip two years’ gifts to 14: which is ivory. I hope you find it companionable, more so than your 12-yr. man has been of late. As we forge our independence you might find him more absent than present. If you have servants, I advise they have coal in abundance to keep your bed warm. In addition, this gift may serve for coal as much as it serves for Mr. Ham._

_It is direct from Paris, produced at my request._

_Yours, most humbly,_  
T. Jeff.  
Virginia 

Eliza closes her eyes and relaxes her expression. As she’s been reading her lip has snarled at the edge and drawn down at the corner. Jefferson is more dog than the dogs in the street. His attention is unwelcome, and no doubt his gift will be too. All the same, she unclasps the box and lifts the lid.

There is silk, after all. The box is lined with it, black and matte in contrast to its contents. Strapped to the bottom with a bit of jute is a column of ivory polished, shining, the length of her forearm elbow to wrist. It’s slender at one end and tapers to a fair thickness at the other. It has a subtle curve. At the slender end, an inch in, there’s a series of rounded ridges on one side, six all in a row. Eliza sucks her teeth and sneers.

She can’t send it back or she will be complicit in his filth. (It does give her a thrill to think of sending it back in pieces, unused.) Returning the thing would give Jefferson even more ammunition than he already has: Poor Eliza Hamilton, unfucked, dry, a married widow.

She doesn’t want to keep it. If she keeps it, she might use it. If she keeps it, Alexander might find it. She is already considering lies to tell him.

She closes the box and scoffs. “Damn.” She pushes the heel of her palm against her cheek and squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them again. She says to the box, “I should throw you in the river.”

Alex can’t know. There are wars enough on the floors of congress without Mrs. Hamilton accusing the Secretary of State of gross impropriety. She can say she bought it herself, she can be convincing. Mr. Jefferson was correct on only one count: She is good.

She picks the box up by its base and holds it away from her like a soiled rag. The children play under the bed, she can’t keep it there. There’s a large drawer in the writing desk that can be locked with a key, and that’s where this thing will go until she’s ready to properly address it.

“Happy anniversary, Elizabeth,” she mutters as she tucks the key to the drawer in her pocket. “Happy -- damned --” She kicks the drawer and grunts. This is not the way she thought today would go.


End file.
